


we'll share tomorrow

by melonbutterfly



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Comfort No Hurt, Fluff, M/M, No Angst, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Sentinel/Guide Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 00:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12120792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/melonbutterfly
Summary: At 32, it's clear to Sam that he won't find his Sentinel. They're most likely dead, and Sam will just have to live with that empty space inside of him, with being an unbonded Guide. Them's the facts, and Sam has made his peace with it.Cue T'Challa.





	we'll share tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [roe87](http://archiveofourown.org/users/roe87/pseuds/roe87) for all the encouragement and support! I honestly couldn't have done this without you ♥
> 
> Please go tell [falcondiment](http://falcondiment.tumblr.com/) how amazing [their art](http://falcondiment.tumblr.com/post/165455396410/these-are-for-melonbutterflys-fic-well-share) is! Thank you so much for choosing my story and gifting it with such amazing artwork! ♥
> 
> PSA: you do not need to know anything about Sentinels/Guides to read this, but if you'd like to know more, [go here](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Sentinel_AU).

Sam is aware of the statistics, thank you. At a ratio of seventy percent to thirty, it is one of life's cruel facts that most Guides will never find their Sentinel – the one that fits them like a puzzle piece. Their One. As a consequence, rather than go their entire life with that empty, yearning space inside, many attempt to fill it by forming close attachments to other people. A Sentinel not theirs. A friend. Other Guides. Family members.

It even works, to a point, though personally, Sam has decided that it's not for him. Because it did work, and he felt okay for a while there with Riley to anchor to, at least so long as he didn't think about that ever-present ache inside. So long as he didn't poke and prod at it like a bruise, checking if it's still there, if it still hurts.

A strategy that, suffice to say, is kind of self-defeating. So it kind of worked, but in some sense it actually made it worse. Even more so when Riley died, and Sam was right there to feel and see it, front-row seat to Riley's death, the fear and desperation he'd felt in his last moments.

But for a while, Riley did help. He'd been happy to be Sam's touch-stone, to let Sam anchor himself to him, and if Riley could never provide what Sam truly needed – somebody to shield him from the constant assault of people's emotions – well, that's just how it was. Nobody but his Sentinel would ever be able to provide that for Sam and, well, Sam is in his thirties now.

He's aware of the statistics. In times of the world-wide, digital database, where Sentinels and Guides are identified at birth and, if they are lucky, matched up with their One in one fell swoop – well, in those times, at thirty-two, it's clear that Sam has no Sentinel. Might be they're dead, might be they were never born, nobody is quite sure about the cause of there being no match. But it's rare, these days, to be matched so late. Since the implementation of the database ten years ago, the number of unmatched Sentinels and Guides has rapidly decreased. Only Guides and Sentinels with no match remain.

There is a small chance Sam's Sentinel lives in some isolated pocket of the world where Sentinels and Guides don't have access to the database, but, well. Sentinels feel that emptiness as well as Guides do, and if Sam lived in the middle of some desert or on top of some mountain, he'd get off there and get to the nearest city and get on that database. Because no matter who they are, where they're from, they all have this one thing in common: the pain. There's stories of Sentinels and Guides travelling monumental distances just to enter themselves into the database. It's a rite of passage to some people. The database is the single most precious and valuable commodity their community has. And it has never yielded a match for Sam.

So Sam has no Sentinel. The largest age-gap between a Sentinel and Guide on record is twelve years, and that's so rare as to be a statistical anomaly. Statistically, the age gap ranges around five months.

Sam could hate the statistics for the cold, hard facts they passionlessly, carelessly cut him open with, but he's a rational person. Truth is, he was already cut open, the statistics just tell him he'll never heal. That's how it is, and he has to deal with it. Has been dealing with it for thirty-two years, too, so it's not like he doesn't have practice. He'd even go so far as to say he's content. Four years after Riley's death, he's at peace with it. Has coped. Has faced the facts and accepted them.

It's a hard-won contentedness, and he's as protective over it as he's proud.

Which is why he kind of maybe loses it a little when he sets eyes on T'Challa, _literal king of Wakanda,_ and feels a tug inside where he's never felt anything but emptiness before.

"Oh, _hell_ no." He says it loudly, very loudly. Which is kind of unfortunate because they're live. In front of the eyes of the world, literally, because this is a highly publicized UN meeting, cameras everywhere. Wakanda is for the first time considering joining the UN, and that's kind of a big deal. Especially since basically the only thing people know about Wakanda is, other than that it's in Africa and that nobody knows anything about it, that its technological status is so advanced even Tony Stark can't measure up.

Sam is here because he's an Avenger and they're around to be visible security, more of a publicity thing than anything else. Stand around and look pretty – Sam can do that. Is intent on doing that. But T'Challa, literal king, has just exited the car, and his presence hits Sam deep in his gut. T'Challa's barely got to set foot onto the red carpet – yep, there's a red carpet, Sam is just not going to comment on that – and nobody has even managed to officially greet him yet.

Well, except Sam. Kind of. Everybody is very quiet. There are lots of cameras and some diplomats out to greet T'Challa and his people before leading them inside so T'Challa can meet the big deal diplomats and do politics. Sam is here along with Steve to be visible and useless.

And loud, apparently. Everybody present is sort of staring at him now, shocked silent.

Sam himself is staring at T'Challa. Who has stopped in his tracks and is looking at him too, just looking. He's very still. Might not even be breathing.

Or maybe that's Sam. That might explain the dizziness.

T'Challa tilts his head, just the slightest bit, focus entirely on Sam. Sam _feels_ it. Has no idea how he can tell – focusing isn't an actual feeling, after all; feelings Sam can sense easy – but he just _knows_. Those intense eyes, fixated on him.

No wonder he has trouble breathing.

Somebody clears their throat, then speaks. The sound is far off, like at the end of a tunnel, and none of the words register. The world sways.

Oops, no, that's Sam. Turns out breathing is kind of important. He gasps, and that, the first sound Sam makes since their eyes met, jolts T'Challa into moving. With a few long, sure steps T'Challa brushes past anyone else as he breaches the distance between them, and it seems to take half a second and an entire year at the same time, both sudden and so, so long.

It's been so, _so_ long.

And then T'Challa – Sam's Sentinel, _Sam's Sentinel_ – is there, in his personal space, so close they're breathing the same air. Not touching, but he could. He could. It'd take nothing to breach what little is left of the distance between them.

Like he's thinking about the same thing, T'Challa raises his hand, but he hesitates at the last moment, doesn't touch.

Instead he closes his eyes, very deliberately, and keeps them shut for a moment, like he's bracing himself. Then, as he opens his eyes, he turns his head. He's not looking at Sam at all anymore, but his body leans towards him a little as if to make up for the loss of eye contact.

"My apologies," T'Challa says, accented voice smooth. "It appears this meeting will have to be postponed."

The diplomat he's addressing sputters. "Your Majesty-"

Very, very calmly, T'Challa interrupts. "Under the international Sentinel and Guide laws, which Wakanda signed into in nineteen eighty-one, I must invoke Sanctuary."

Sam notes the ensuing stunned silence rather absently, because T'Challa is so close Sam can smell him. With his completely mundane senses, he can smell him, can even feel his body heat. Or maybe that's his imagination.

His Sentinel. This is _his_ Sentinel.

"Of course," somebody says. "Of course, your Majesty. It's no trouble at all. Take all the time you need. And if I may, on behalf of the United Nations, I offer congratulations."

T'Challa inclines his head, then turns it to face Sam again.

Their eyes meet, and Sam blurts, "You have cute ears." They are cute. Sort of small and a little angular, not as rounded as most people's. Adorable.

T'Challa blinks once. "Thank you." Then he takes half a step away. Barely half a step, at that, maybe more of a quarter of a step, but still, he moves away, and Sam sways after him like a drunk magnet or something. But it's not out of distress, because T'Challa is still looking at Sam, focused completely on him once again. Sam still would like him to not move away, but T'Challa isn't leaving. Even dazed as he is, he knows that much.

"Will you come with me?" T'Challa asks. _Asks_. Like there's any possibility Sam might say no.

There isn't. He could, technically. There is legal protection for it, too, because some Sentinels turn out wrong, as do some Guides. So technically, Sam could say no, and T'Challa would be powerless to stop him. There is a choice here, and it's good to know that T'Challa respects that, but there is nothing, nothing in the world that could stop Sam from going with him. Because T'Challa has invoked Sanctuary, which means he's already said yes. Which means that no matter what's going on, it will be put on hold with no repercussions so the Sentinel and Guide can retreat to a safe space – usually the Sentinel's territory – and bond in peace.

A safe space. To bond in.

Well. Wakanda is certainly that.

"Sure," Sam says, all casual like, and T'Challa takes another quarter step back, shifts to the side, clearly intending for Sam to lead the way back to the car. Which Sam is willing to do. It means he won't be able to look at T'Challa anymore, but that's alright because T'Challa sticks so close to Sam one might reasonably describe it as hovering. He's all but herding Sam to the car and Sam is very, very okay with that.

He slips into the car and T'Challa slides in after him immediately. Then his entire body goes tense, focus shifting away, and Sam's attention snaps to.

Meaning, he stops concentrating almost exclusively on T'Challa and instead looks past him, where the bodyguard who held open the door of the car clearly meant to get inside as well.

Yeah, that's not going to happen. Sam can't see T'Challa's face, his head is turned towards the bodyguard, but his body language alone says it all: _back off_. A moment later the car door is shut, and then they're moving. Presumably to the airport, and then to Wakanda.

There's no way they're going anywhere else. Technically the Guide's territory is also an option, most pairs make a joint decision based on whose territory is more secure (read: private), but, well. There's probably no place on _the entire planet_ more secure than Wakanda. White people have only been trying to invade or infiltrate it for a thousand years or so. Unsuccessfully.

Yep. Wakanda is definitely safer than Sam's DC apartment. Even his room in Stark's phallic shrine – he calls it "Avengers tower" – is so inadequate in comparison as to be laughable.

"My apologies," T'Challa says, voice a bit less smooth now. His hands are tense on his thighs, gripping tightly as if to keep himself from reaching for Sam, and his breathing is very controlled calm. "I would have liked to offer you a choice as to where we retreat to, but due to the security risks any space I cannot wholly control is unfortunately not an option."

Sam shakes his head, half incredulous that they were clearly thinking about the same thing, half in immediate denial. "That's fine. I don't mind. I understand."

Besides, in Wakanda T'Challa – who is _the king_ , holy shit – probably has a space that offers true privacy. Nobody close by, no foreign emotions to distract Sam and invade the probably most important time of his life.

They can bond in peace, no rush, nothing forcing them to hurry up so T'Challa can become Sam's buffer for people's emotions and Sam can become T'Challa's buffer for his senses. It's what any Guide or Sentinel dreams of, and what very few manage to achieve. The shock to their systems at a True pair's unexpected first meeting creates a certain urgency – Sam is already a bit dazed, and the longer it takes before they can start to bond the worse it will get. T'Challa doesn't seem too affected right now, but Sam can feel the churning of his emotions beneath the calm exterior.

T'Challa is not calm at all. He's just focusing very, very hard so his emotions – shock, protectiveness, possessiveness, a little bit of anger too – don't get the better of him and make him do something unwise.

Touching Sam wouldn't be wise. Touch – prolonged, thorough touching – is among the main ways to facilitate a bond, and if that bonding process is interrupted they could go feral. Which would literally be fatal for everyone around them and themselves probably too.

Unfortunately, all Sam can think about is touching. He's staring at T'Challa's hands, clenched so hard in his thighs he's probably leaving bruises, and all he wants is to take them, pull them out of their cramped position and cradle them close. T'Challa's hands should always be happy, he thinks nonsensically.

"What…" T'Challa rasps, clears his throat. "May I have your name?"

Sam blinks, looks up and finds himself caught in T'Challa's gaze again. "Sam. Sam Wilson. Samuel Thomas Wilson, actually."

T'Challa nods once, a little abruptly. "Hello, Samuel Thomas Wilson. I am T'Challa."

No last name. T'Challa doesn't need one; as if anybody is not going to know who he is. Because he's the King of Wakanda.

Sam's Sentinel is literally a King.

Right. So that's something Sam will have to deal with later, because right now there are more urgent things preoccupying him.

Like the fact that he has a Sentinel. After all this time, all these years of dwindling hope and then the crushing surety that he'd be alone forever. Empty forever.

And now here he is. His Sentinel.

"You aren't in the database," he blurts out. Immediately afterwards he regrets it, but at the same time he kind of doesn't, too, because T'Challa isn't. In the database. If he were they would've been matched up ten years ago.

Ten years.

T'Challa looks at him. "I- I was an unbonded Sentinel and the heir to the throne of Wakanda. A country that to this day has to fight off daily infiltration attempts. If we show so much as a glimpse of a weakness, there will be somebody to pounce on it. If they had known… my control is good, but ultimately, I'm still- I _was_ still an unbonded Sentinel. There was no guarantee I'd have a match, or if I did, that they- _you_ would be in the database."

And Sam gets it. If somebody had seen an opportunity to gain control of T'Challa, Crown Prince and now King of Wakanda, they would have taken it. Unbonded Sentinels are uniquely vulnerable, their senses easily overwhelmed, a zone out not hard to induce. And a zoned out Sentinel is completely helpless. They just would've needed a Sentinel-grade flash bang and then they could've kidnapped or killed him. With his status as an unbonded Sentinel known, T'Challa would never have been able to leave his country, which would have functionally rendered him useless as King.

"I'm very, very sorry," T'Challa whispers. "You don't know how many nights I lay awake, thinking about it. But for the good of my people, I could not, and you had to suffer for it. I don't, can't regret the choice I made, but I will regret that it caused you pain for the rest of my life."

"You suffered too," Sam replies, voice equally quiet. Arguably, T'Challa might even have suffered more so than Sam. There is a reason why unbonded Sentinels aren't allowed into a lot of positions and responsibilities while unbonded Guides have far less restrictions.

He blinks the tears out of his eyes and instead focuses back on T'Challa's hands. _All of that's over now_ , he reminds himself. Technically they're still unbonded, but not for much longer. And legally, once they leave Sanctuary they'll be considered bonded – and in theory they could leave it right now.

Silence reins until the car rolls to a halt on the airport. Literally on the rolling field, in front of a small plane. Sam glances around once, then looks back to T'Challa, who is focused on him, expression very serious as he addresses Sam. "You may leave at any time. You are not a prisoner. If at any point you wish to leave, you need only tell me, or in fact anybody at all. You will be taken to the airport and flown wherever you wish to go without hesitation. No matter the circumstances."

"Okay," Sam whispers.

T'Challa nods once, then opens the door, slips out and waits for Sam to follow. And Sam, who technically has his own door right there to get out of, instead slides across the seats and follows T'Challa.

The plane is a bit more crowded than Sam expected; at least half a dozen bodyguards are in the process of finding seats, with a couple more following Sam and T'Challa. Though really, Sam chides himself for his surprise, what did he expect? That they'd hide in the cockpit? Silly.

Without touching Sam at all, T'Challa guides Sam over to four seats with a table in the middle, though the table is folded away currently. "Where would you like to sit?"

Not really in the mindset of thinking about things like that, Sam blinks, then chooses the seat by the window, facing to the front. He steps forwards to sit down, but T'Challa stays still and that halts Sam before he can take another step. As he turns around to send him a questioning look, T'Challa asks, "Where would you like for me to sit?"

For a moment, Sam can only stare. Very, very belatedly, he realizes what T'Challa is doing: he's trying to make Sam as comfortable as possible by giving him as much choice and control as he can in a situation in which Sam could very easily feel powerless. And he does appreciate it, he does, but at the same time it's kind of hard for him to think right now. All he knows is that he feels safe. Anyway, the thought of giving T'Challa, the King of Wakanda, an order… it's a strange thought, alright?

But that's not how he should look at it. T'Challa is his Sentinel, and that's all that really matters.

So Sam sinks down into the seat he chose and pats the one next to it. Without a word, T'Challa sits where direted, kind of boxing Sam in, a physical barrier between him and the other occupants of the plane. Not that Sam is worried that they might harm him, but they're… they're _there_. They're all calm and professional, but their emotions are as vivid and alive as most other people's. And while usually Sam manages to deal with that, is able to at least reduce his awareness by focusing elsewhere, right now he feels raw, like an exposed nerve. Their surprise and intense curiosity, their suspicion and worry weighs heavy on him. Is oppressive, even invasive when all he wants to think about is T'Challa, when the only emotions he wants to sense are T'Challa's.

Well, he can still do that, at least.

The plane starts taxiing immediately. Belatedly it occurs to Sam that somebody must have called ahead so it'd be ready for them, and he never even showed anybody his passport either even though he's leaving the country.

The plane didn't even have to wait, it just went straight for takeoff.

A diplomatic jet. Right. That probably makes all the difference. Sam doesn't have any personal experience at all with that, but he remembers some scandal where the USA forced some South American president's jet to land to be searched because they thought Snowden might be on it, and everybody was shocked and outraged at the audacity. So probably diplomatic jets get away with a lot.

They lift off, and Sam stares down at the shrinking airport. "How…" he has to clear his throat. "How long is the flight?"

"Five hours," T'Challa informs him. And five hours isn't long, rationally Sam knows that, not considering they're flying to Northeast Africa. Considering that, it's actually shockingly short.

But that's five hours where he's sitting next to T'Challa, not allowed to touch. Sam's honestly not sure he can do that, but he also knows that other pairs have managed to hold out even longer than that, so technically he should be able to. Nevermind that statistically, most pairs average at around two to three hours.

So it's going to take some effort, but Sam can do it. He clears his throat again, but it's still raspy when he announces, "I'm going to meditate."

T'Challa nods abruptly, eyes to the front, and Sam exhales. Closes his eyes. Settles into as relaxed a position as possible, hands on his knees, and starts with the breathing exercise.

Meditation is one of the most important coping mechanisms for unbonded Guides. It's very hard to learn, especially living in the city where there's always people close by whose emotions intrude, but that only makes it all the more important. There's nothing better at helping a Guide calm down, even out, relax.

The only thing that sucks about it is that you already need to be at least a little calm to be able to get into it, or at least Sam does, and he isn't calm at all right now. He wants to be, keeps telling himself that something good is happening and things will only get better from here on out, but his emotions refuse to even out, much less his thoughts. They're not even sensible. His brain feels like a humming bee, vibrating even when still, flitting from thing to thing that catches his attention.

T'Challa's body heat all along Sam's right side, not touching but so, so close. Sam's recurring disbelief that this is happening, that he's found his Sentinel. Who his Sentinel is. A slowly increasing anger that circumstances forced T'Challa to make a decision that would keep them apart for so long.

T'Challa's own anger. His incredulousness – not disbelief, not even a little bit – and surprise and regret and his overwhelming relief. His protectiveness, possessiveness that's natural for any Sentinel to be feeling for his Guide, much less one in the process of bonding. One who isn't allowed to touch yet.

Sam wants to reach out, wants to touch him and let him know that it's alright. That Sam's here now, that he's not going away, that they're going to work things out. Everything else is in the past and doesn't matter.

It does matter, Sam knows that, but he wishes it didn't.

And if all that weren't already preoccupying enough, there are also the bodyguards and even the pilot and co-pilot, though at least those two are relatively unobtrusive.

From what Sam has seen of the bodyguards so far, exclusively women, and very professional. However, as usually is the case with people, just because they are in control of themselves doesn't mean they aren't feeling much, and T'Challa's bodyguards feel a lot. Curiosity, confusion, suspicion, worry, frustration… there are eight of them, and just because of that, the collective impact of their emotions weighs heavier than T'Challa's, no matter how hard Sam tries to focus on him. It should come natural, T'Challa is his Sentinel (his Sentinel!) after all, but it doesn't.

Then Sam shifts just a little and now his holstered gun is digging into his ribs and meditation is just not going to happen right now.

With a frustrated huff, Sam opens his eyes. They're above the clouds already, though they haven't reached maximum altitude yet, and a hushed silence reigns.

Then T'Challa speaks, voice low. "Are you alright?"

As he turns to face him, Sam shrugs. He's opening his mouth to reply, but then his eyes fall on T'Challa and he immediately forgets whatever he was going to say. Because T'Challa looks… he looks _tense_. It seems like he has locked every single muscle in his entire body; he's not even leaning back, just sitting very straight, hands clenched on his thighs again like they were in the car. His face is placid.

Nevermind how Sam is, T'Challa is clearly doing worse. "Are _you_ alright?"

T'Challa looks at him for a long moment, not even blinking. Eventually he concedes, "I have been better." Very deliberate in his understatement.

Sam bets he's not been much worse.

Shit. If they can't make it through the next five, six hours until they have privacy, then they'll have to bond on the plane. It won't be comfortable, especially not with those bodyguards and no place to have privacy, but if worst comes to worst, they could do it.

Still, the alternative is massively more preferable.

Right now, as much as Sam is struggling with his shielding and the agitation that, he's starting to suspect, won't settle until they actually bond, T'Challa's senses must be going haywire. This is a familiar environment, T'Challa presumably knows and trusts everybody aboard and they're heading towards his territory, but still, his Guide is right there and he can't touch. He can smell and hear Sam, but he can't touch, can't taste, can't claim. Can't lock himself with Sam in a truly safe, private place, secure in the knowledge that he has all the time in the world to really anchor himself to Sam.

Right. There is not much Sam can do about that, but he can try to make it a little bit better for T'Challa. If worst comes to worst he figures they can as a last-ditch attempt try to recreate that weird Titanic sex scene with the blanket in between preventing all actual skin on skin contact, but he has some other ideas before they have to resort to that.

Sitting up properly, he shrugs out of his jacket, gets rid of his tie and sidearm and starts to unbutton his shirt. "Have you been wearing your jacket for long?"

T'Challa is so busy staring at Sam's newly revealed upper body that it takes him a moment to reply. It's very flattering. "A few hours. Why?"

Right, he didn't ask the right question. "Does it smell like you?"

His collarbone. T'Challa is staring at Sam's collarbone, what little of it he can see at least; Sam is wearing a t-shirt underneath, and right now T'Challa gets to see more of his throat – of his whole body – than ever before. His scent is probably more easily accessible now too.

"Somewhat," T'Challa replies very belatedly, voice raspy. He's still staring at Sam's collarbone, the base of his neck. Probably thinking about biting it.

Sam shivers thinking about it, too. But he needs to concentrate, this is the opposite of helpful, and so he clears his throat and forces himself to focus. The jacket clearly won't do. "Can you take off your shirt then?"

This time there is no delay in T'Challa's reaction; he immediately lifts his hands to pull open his tie, then starts unbuttoning. By this point Sam has taken his shirt off and holds it in his lap, watching T'Challa.

And it so, so pays off. Because whoo boy, those are _muscles_. Sam has no clue what other kings – or queens for that matter – look like in the physical department, but he's very sure that T'Challa leaves them all in the dust. That sleekly cut suit hides a lot, which is honestly astonishing because T'Challa looks amazing in it. More amazing out of it though, clearly. Now Sam finds himself being the one staring as T'Challa slowly reveals his body. He too is wearing an undershirt, but it's naturally much tighter than the layers above and thus leaves little to the imagination.

Not that that's stopping Sam. His imagination is doing _great_.

Then T'Challa shrugs out of his shirt and jacket at the same time and looks at Sam, a clear question on his face.

Sam swallows, clears his throat and tears his eyes away from those arms. ( _Those arms_ , though.) "I, uh. Right. I'll wear your shirt, so your scent will be all over me. And you can have mine to smell or wear or whatever. Sound good?"

"Yes." T'Challa's reply and tone are curt, but his eyes are intense as he hands his shirt over, and there's a definite tinge of satisfaction to his emotions now. The wild sort that demands for more, but is willing to be sated for now.

For now. Sam shivers, bites his lower lip, and is very careful not to touch T'Challa's skin as they exchange shirts. T'Challa takes Sam's and holds it close, but his primary focus is on Sam as he puts on T'Challa's shirt, does up the buttons. It even almost fits, though it's a bit too loose.

It's also still warm with T'Challa's body heat. Again Sam shivers, closes his eyes and inhales, but unfortunately, his sense of smell is entirely mundane and he smells barely anything, just a faint spiciness.

He blinks his eyes open and looks at T'Challa, who is still watching him intently. "Better?"

Slowly, T'Challa nods. His grip is tight on Sam's shirt, which is much better than him giving himself bruises by digging his fingers into his thighs.

"Good." Relieved, Sam smiles. For a moment they just look at each other – just look.

Sam had seen pictures of the king of Wakanda, of course. But obviously that had been before he'd known that T'Challa is his Sentinel. Even then he'd thought that T'Challa was handsome, even more so because of his bearing, the calm confidence T'Challa exudes. But now Sam really, really looks. And, well. In Sam's entirely unbiased opinion, he can honestly say that he's probably nabbed the most handsome Sentinel in the world. Right now T'Challa looks very serious, focused, but Sam bets he's got the cutest smile. And Sam will make sure he'll be one of those people with the privilege of being at the receiving end of it, he swears it to himself right now.

"Thank you," T'Challa says, voice a bit softer now than before. "This was a good idea." Sam feels his smile widen into a grin, but before he can say anything T'Challa continues with the question, "Why did you stop meditating?"

Caught a little off-guard by the change in topic, Sam blinks. "Oh. It's just a bit… too noisy, you know?"

Brows furrowing slightly, T'Challa quickly glances around the very silent plane. Nobody but them is talking, and other than that there's just the steady hum of the engines. Come to think, Sam wonders how T'Challa deals with that; to him it's got to be much, much louder.

But yeah, that's not what Sam was talking about. "Empathically, I mean," he clarifies. As much as he's going to, anyway. Sam's not going to tell T'Challa that his bodyguards are bothering him. There's no possible good outcome to doing that, especially long-term. They're already suspicious enough of him. Kind of understandably so, in some ways, but still.

It seems, however, that what little info Sam gave was already enough for T'Challa to figure it out. Because his gaze sharpens, and then he turns away from Sam, leans out into the aisle and calls out, voice just barely above conversational level, "Okoye."

Promptly, one of the bodyguards appears. She's beautiful, but much more compelling is her aura of deadly competence. This is a woman that could crush a guy without batting an eyelash.

She doesn't so much as glance at Sam, is wholly focused on T'Challa, and Sam… well, he doesn't probe. That would be unethical. But at the best of times he's not so good at filtering, no unbonded Guide is, that's part of why they need a Sentinel, and right now Sam's countenance is in tatters already anyway. So while he doesn't probe, he still finds out what he wants to know: that Okoye is not interested in T'Challa. Romantically, sexually, anyway.

Come to think, if anybody on the plane were, Sam would likely already know. They wouldn't be able to control those emotions, not in light of what happened today, and he'd know immediately.

Well, that's good to know. And he's also never going to tell anybody ever about his little moment of possessiveness. Nope.

While Sam was busy not being possessive, T'Challa has given Okoye instructions in a low voice, in a language Sam doesn't speak. She listens silently, then nods once and turns on her heel, moves back to her fellow bodyguards. It's then that Sam realizes that he and T'Challa have been given as much privacy and space as possible in their little four-seater at the rear end of the plane; all the others are seated at the front. That's nice.

"They'll meditate to calm their minds," T'Challa informs Sam then. "Hopefully, it will help."

Caught off-guard at the thoughtfulness, Sam blinks. "Oh. Uh, yeah, sure, it probably will. That's nice, thanks." He should probably thank them, too, but Sam isn't sure if he should just talk to them.

Oh. Oh, especially not right now, because they're doing it already. He can feel it – like a thick-toothed comb gently smoothing out a strand of hair, the chaotic entanglement of emotions starts to calm, smoothen out.

Slowly, gently, they fade away. "Oh," Sam sighs, relieved beyond words. He didn't realize just how taxing it was until now that it's going away. They must be well-practiced to be able to sink into trance so swift and smooth.

He sighs again and sinks back into his seat, eyes fluttering shut. For a moment he follows along, but then he forcibly stops himself and opens his eyes again. There's one more thing he wanted to suggest.

T'Challa is looking at him again, eyes very intense. Something about his expression makes a shiver run down Sam's back. "I…" he clears his throat. "I have another suggestion. Do you think you'll be able to focus on hearing without zoning out?"

Abruptly, T'Challa nods, not offering a verbal reply.

Sam licks his lips. "Right, good, okay, then… maybe it'll help if you focus on my heartbeat. Try to filter out everything else – not completely, just so it won't bother you anymore – and listen to my heart. I'll try meditating again and hopefully it'll work this time, so it'll be steady and calm. How's that sound?"

"Good."

"Okay, good. Let's give it a try then." Sam waits for T'Challa to nod again, then relaxes back into his seat, closes his eyes and calms his breathing. Just minutes later, the undertow of the bodyguards' collective trance has pulled him under and he's gone.

And so, he spends the whole rest of the flight in meditative trance. It's a purposeful decision; he almost emerges several times, a few of them because of outside influences, a few because of the inner need to check on T'Challa. Luckily, while not as calm as his bodyguards, T'Challa too evens out. Sam wouldn't describe him as calm, but he's not in distress at any point. Stressed, impatient, yes, but not alarmingly so.

That changes when the plane descends to land. Sam emerges from meditation simultaneously as the bodyguards do, and maybe it's his heartbeat quickening or maybe it's the fact that they're landing, but T'Challa's previously steady emotions spike. It's not so much one emotion as all of them with impatience at the forefront, a collective surge that Sam would describe as "finally".

Well, he can only second that. _Finally_.

One glance out of the window tells Sam that there's no point trying to catch his first glimpse of mysterious country Wakanda, because it's pitch black outside. Sam's internal clock tells him it's early evening, Wakanda tells him it's the middle of the night. A bit unfortunate, because Sam is curious, but on the other hand he's getting a bit jittery himself and wouldn't be able to properly focus right now anyway, much less process.

Everybody is stirring in the plane, and by the time they touchdown Sam is about to vibrate out of his seat. "What now?" he asks as the plane rolls to a halt.

"Now, we will go to my home," T'Challa informs him, voice tight. Once more he has one hand clenched in his thigh, the other keeping a tight hold on Sam's shirt, and he's not looking at Sam. Keeps avoiding looking at him pointedly, like he's not sure he'll be able to keep himself in check if he looks at Sam.

Sam shivers and just barely manages to tune in as T'Challa continues, "I have a private home away from the city. It's remote. We do have access to all technology, but nobody will try to contact us."

"Sounds good." Sam's voice cracks a bit there, but sue him. This is a dream come true for any Sentinel or Guide, and exactly what he'd been hoping for. Absolute privacy and unlimited time and space to bond in. It sounds so good he actually doesn't quite know how to deal with it.

That's alright, though. It seems like everything has already been arranged, which must be due to one of the bodyguards because T'Challa hasn't talked to anybody except for Okoye that one time. But when they exit the plane there's already another waiting for them, and this one looks kind of like the quinjet. In the same sense as a manta ray and a jelly fish look kind of similar.

The quinjet is the jelly fish in this metaphor.

T'Challa's jet is completely matte black and looks very, very slick. It kind of looks like a cross between an F-22 Raptor and an F-35 Lightning II with the nose of a F-117A Nighthawk, only smaller, less angular and sleeker. Sam is really into it.

Like. _Really_ into it. To the point where he has to stop for a moment and stare, biting his lower lip as he takes in the beauty of the aircraft. Eyes bright, he then looks at T'Challa who is standing next to him, waiting calmly even though he's full of urgency inside. "This is a very beautiful jet."

One corner of T'Challa's mouth quirks up. "Thank you. I was involved in the design."

Ohhh. Oh, god.

Sam doesn't squeak, he really doesn't, except for maybe inwardly a little bit. Seriously though. Here he thought T'Challa spends his time being a king, which, since he is the absolute monarch of Wakanda, surely must involve a lot of work, only to find out that in his spare time he actually designs jet planes.

If Sam were the type to swoon, he'd do it now, but he isn't. Nope. He's a professional adult of thirty-two years. He has his shit together and does not swoon.

He does sigh a little, but sighing is not swooning.

As they approach the jet, he can't resist; he runs his hand along the hull. The metal is cool, the coat of paint matte and very smooth. It doesn't seem so different from what Sam is familiar with, but of course it must be. Wakanda is an entirely self-sufficient country, and so everything they need they produce themselves. They invent it themselves, too. If the rest of that famed, advanced technology is as slick as this jet, Sam is going to… he doesn't know what he's going to do, but his mind will be blown.

They climb into the jet, which on the inside vaguely resembles other jets Sam has been on, but also looks completely different. It's still all very logical and sensible, probably, but Sam can't actually figure most of the controls out even with his own experience with aircraft.

That's alright. T'Challa clearly has things under control; only one pilot is needed and so Sam gets to sit in the copilot's seat and just watch. And oh, once the engines are on… they're so _quiet_. And _oh_ , it's a VTOL. "Oh, you beautiful thing," Sam sighs, staring, enraptured, as they lift up, smooth and easy, then transition without a hitch into flying. Below them the lights of the city Sam paid zero attention to blur, then fade into darkness.

The flight is far, far too short for Sam's taste. After less than half an hour they're descending already, but Sam regrets that for less than a second before he abruptly realizes that they've arrived.

 _They've arrived_. T'Challa's absolute territory, complete privacy for however long they want it. There's no need to hold back anymore: they're free to bond.

Well, almost. They should probably get out of the jet. As pretty as she is, she doesn't exactly pose the ideal environment for the sorts of things Sam is pretty sure they'll engage in.

"Come," T'Challa says – not an order but a request, one that Sam gladly follows. There's barely enough light for him to navigate by, the darkness out here is nearly absolute, but he can hear the sound of insects similar to cicadas, the call of some night birds. They landed on some sort of platform, and in front of them Sam can vaguely make out the shape of a building.

It sounds peaceful out here. Sam is a city boy, but despite that – or perhaps actually because of it – he's always found nature soothing. Also scary, of course, there's far too many things out there happy to eat him or crawl into his underwear, but still. "We're in a forest, right?"

"Yes." T'Challa opens the door and then holds it open for Sam, welcoming him inside. "I can show you around tomorrow, once it's daylight. It's pointless at nighttime. You can-" He pauses. Clears his throat, and then unsubtly changes topics. "I have been remiss in my duties. I apologize."

Confused, Sam opens his mouth to ask, but that's when T'Challa switches on the light and temporarily blinds Sam in the process. Once his eyes have adjusted, the view presented to him serves to thoroughly distract him.

It's… beautiful. Nothing actually strange or alien, but still not quite what he's used to. It's a big, open-plan room with a gorgeous wooden floor. There are more floor to ceiling windows than walls, and everything looks very appealing. A seating area with some luscious looking sofas and chairs and huge, comfy-looking floor pillows, a woven carpet underneath and a fair number of bookshelves. Then there's a cooking area and another space cordoned off for what Sam assumes is business, with a table and some screens and electronic type stuff, but it's clearly small, not meant for anything serious or important. The light also illuminates what looks like a completely wrap-around porch outside, and it seems like some of the windows can open seamlessly. Sam doesn't see a bed, but he does eventually spot a staircase – in his defense, it's really subtle, just steps, nothing else. Built into the wall, they lead up into the ceiling, which is cone-shaped, and circle said cone in a spiral to the top, where there is an entrance into what Sam presumes will be the tip of the cone. T'challa's bedroom must either be there or in the basement – if there is a basement.

It's not a huge house, and it's certainly not extravagant. Not what people would assume a king would live in. But Sam, who's never really thought much about where kings live, loves it. It looks cozy and homey and like somebody actually lives here, not at all like the showcase-ready apartments in Stark's phallic monument.

"I love it," Sam proclaims, turning to look at T'Challa, who has waited patiently for his assessment.

One corner of T'Challa's mouth quirks up, and Sam can clearly sense the relief he feels. Which – oh no. That's so sweet, T'Challa was worried what Sam would think. Though in hindsight, of course he would be, Sam is his Guide and of course it matters whether he likes T'Challa's territory. His sanctuary, even, Sam would presume.

"Good," T'Challa murmurs. He glances around once, then focuses on the electronics area. "If you want to leave, however, you are free to do so at any time, of course. You can either tell me, or call somebody yourself. I'll show you how-" He takes a step towards the electronics area, but Sam stops him before he can go any further.

"T'Challa."

T'Challa pauses and looks at him.

He's nervous. Sam can sense it, and it shouldn't be unexpected, but it is. T'Challa still seems so calm, very much in control of his body, but Sam can sense his nervousness, how unsure he is. And in one hand, T'Challa still has Sam's shirt, hopelessly wrinkled now, but T'Challa's brought it with them all the way from the airport, even though he's got the real thing right there as well.

Sam licks his lips. "Look. I appreciate what you're doing – that you're trying to make me comfortable. But I trust you. I trust that you, if I say I want to leave, will help me leave. I know we don't actually know each other – at all. But I'm a Guide, and that means I can sense a lot about people, and I know enough about you to trust you." He takes a breath, chews on his lower lip for a moment, then decides to just say what he's thinking. "Right now I'm a little confused because from what I know about Sentinels, the first thing they want to do when they find their Guide is touch them. It's actually pretty imperative. And we're in a safe space now – your territory – so I'm wondering why we're not doing that?"

"I…" A little helplessly, T'Challa stares at him for a moment, and then he haltingly explains. "I do. Want that." He closes his eyes for a moment and yeah, Sam can tell that he does. It's not really a feeling in and of itself but a conglomeration of them, of need and yearning and possessiveness, and T'Challa is feeling all of that. "However, I…" Again T'Challa pauses, but this time to focus, and when he speaks again his voice is more sure. "I'm very aware of our positions – by which I mean, how much power my position puts myself in. Power over you. I'm the King, and we're in my country. My country that you've never been to, don't know anybody in and that has no easy connection to the rest of the world. This puts you in a very vulnerable position, and the last thing I want for you is to actually feel vulnerable. Additionally… when it became clear that my Guide was not among our population, I resigned myself to the fact that I would never find them. …you. That I'd never find you. Yes, there are… a lot of things I'd like to do with you. However, as you said, we're strangers, and that you're my Guide doesn't give me the right to just… do whatever I'd like. I very much don't want to make you uncomfortable. So I must admit… I'm a little at a loss as to how I should proceed."

Well, T'Challa's got a point there. Sam nods slowly, thinking about it. "Well… what would you most like to do right now? Something you can do without worrying about making me uncomfortable?"

"Feed you," T'Challa replies pretty quickly – clearly, he's thought about it already. "Make you comfortable." He grimaces a bit. "Honestly, I'd best like to just… be with you somewhere and take some time to process. I really never expected to be in this position."

"I didn't either," Sam admits.

T'Challa nods. "What would you most like to do right now?"

"Honestly? Take you into a blanket fort and cuddle. But I'm also totally up for letting you provide for me for a bit." Sam says it with a wink. It's a Sentinel thing – the providing as pertaining to physical needs. The Guide part is providing for emotional and mental needs. Both of these are coming together beautiful right now, even if not in a way Sam expected.

Clearly relieved and glad to have a plan, T'Challa nods and walks towards the kitchen area. Sam follows in his tracks, content to stick close and just watch. And now that he thinks about it, he is hungry – and thirsty too, which T'Challa clearly anticipated as he without a word gets Sam a glass of water.

"Thanks," Sam murmurs, then leans against the counter, hopefully out of the way, and watches. It's interesting how T'Challa feels more secure now, safe in his territory. Though of course he wouldn't be agitated anymore; most of that came from not having Sam in a safe space he knows and controls. Now, he can relax. This is T'Challa's domain, he knows it inside and out and knows that Sam is safe. That nobody can hurt or bother either of them.

The meal T'Challa prepares is not overly complicated. Some type of leaves that kind of look like house plant, but T'Challa boils them, then makes some type of sauce with onion and tomato. At the end he throws all of it together. In another pot, he's made some type of grain that's either bulgur or couscous or something native to Wakanda, not that Sam would know either way, as he can't tell those beige type grains apart anyway.

It's kind of nice to watch T'Challa cook. He seems to know what he's doing so he must cook somewhat regularly, and something about that is just attractive. Though really, Sam wants to meet the person who claims watching a hot guy cook for them doesn't do it for them.

But there's more to it than that, too. It's domestic, watching T'Challa cook, and surprisingly intimate. Sam's never paid much attention to cooking before, so it's startling now how much he likes it – though then, it might just be because T'Challa is doing it.

T'Challa, _Sam's Sentinel_.

That's not a thought Sam is going to get used to anytime soon. There are a lot of implications to that that he'll have to figure out at one point, especially what with T'Challa being King, but right now he resolutely, purposefully pushes all that aside.

They can deal with all that later. Right now, Sam kind of just wants to bask in the fact that he's not alone anymore. He can already feel it, a warmth in his chest where there was just emptiness before. It's hard to process because he really wasn't expecting it anymore, but nothing could be more welcome than this, expected or no.

So preoccupied with his thoughts, Sam misses T'Challa plating up the grain and vegetable stuff until the forks clink against the porcelain as T'Challa grabs plates and cutlery. "Can you get the glasses?"

"Sure." Startled into action, Sam fills both their glasses with water and then follows T'Challa over to the sofa, where they're apparently eating.

Sam accepts his plate with a smile. "Thanks." Then he looks at the food, which looks a bit like spinach actually. "So… what is it?"

"Spider plant," T'Challa informs him. "Amaranth, onion, tomato, spices."

…alright. Sam is no expert, but he sort of thought that spider plant is a house plant, the type for decoration, not something people eat. But T'Challa's eating it, so clearly he thought wrong.

Sam's first bite is taken a bit cautiously, but really, it tastes kind of like kale, and the amaranth tastes like all those grain type stuff tastes, which is mostly like nothing. There is a nutty undertone though that mixes well with the spider plant and actually, it's good.

And Sam is starving. He doesn't notice until the second bite, when he isn't so focused on analyzing the flavor anymore, but seriously. Starving.

"Good?" T'Challa asks, tone slightly amused. He's much more amused on the inside, but also feeling very pleased, satisfied about a job well done, feeding his Guide. Providing.

Sam, halfway through his meal, pauses, considers how he's been kind of scarfing everything down, then decides he's not going to feel embarrassed about it. T'Challa's clearly taking it as a compliment anyway. "Very good," he thus confirms, then continues eating. Stuffing his face. Whatever.

Once his plate is empty Sam pats his belly and sighs. Now that he's sitting comfortable, safe and private in T'Challa's territory with the urgency having mostly gone out of both of them, the day's events are starting to catch up to him a little. Not so much the finding his Sentinel part or who his Sentinel is – he's still shocked, full of amazement and disbelief and other emotions – but the six hour plane ride, the adrenaline, the confusion and stress. This day would've been tiring even if nothing of note had happened, but that's not at all how it had progressed, and he's exhausted. His carefully obtained equilibrium is shattered, what little shields he was able to put up to protect himself from other people's emotions are in tatters, and he's feeling the aftereffect of that, too.

"About that blanket fort," T'Challa says, and that's just not fair. _Sam's_ supposed to be the one who reads emotions.

Though okay, yeah, that's silly. Just because Sam as an empath has abilities in reading emotions that nobody else can match, doesn't mean non-empaths can't read emotions at all. That's what body language is for, after all.

"Yes," Sam sighs, blinking at him slowly. T'Challa is sitting very relaxed, one leg curled on the sofa, one arm over the backrest with his body turned towards Sam. It's nice. Sam likes looking at him, and not just because he's gorgeous. He's _relaxed_ , and Sam loves that.

"My bed," T'Challa starts, then pauses. "Perhaps it's best if I show you."

Show Sam his bed? Oh, Sam is completely on board with that. "Yes," he agrees quickly. "Show me your bed."

For a brief moment, Sam receives a heated look, a spark of arousal, but then T'Challa lowers his gaze and visibly refocuses. "I do presume you're not scared of heights," he states, dryly amused, as he rises to his feet. "Considering how you spend part of your time."

"Flying around with mechanical wings, you mean?" Sam says, nonchalant as he follows T'Challa over to, yes, the staircase. On the way there T'Challa steps out of his shoes so Sam follows his example, except it turns out barefoot T'Challa walks completely silently, whereas Sam… doesn't.

Oh well. At least T'Challa will always hear him coming. Nevermind that as a Sentinel, he always will, anyway, no matter how silently Sam walks

They walk up the stairs, and well, it's a bit of a cliché and if anybody asks Sam will deny it 'til kingdom come, but he's always liked being up high. Likes looking at things from up top, see the bigger picture. If he were rich, he'd probably live in a place a lot like this, with an immensely high ceiling and the ability to get up to that height and look down.

He'd primarily need to be rich to keep all of that warm in winter, but still.

They reach the top and T'Challa climbs through the round hole. Pretty curious now, Sam follows along, only to freeze halfway through, speechless.

It's a bed. In front of him is pretty big bed, and it's almost completely round, there are lots of pillows and blankets, but what's truly stunning is that it's in a dome of glass. Seamless glass, no visible support to it, so it's pretty much invisible, offers a completely unobstructed view of the night sky. With no light pollution and a cloudless night, thousands of stars are visible, and in the distance, near the horizon, the rising moon.

It's amazing. Sam doesn't know how T'Challa ever leaves. Scratch that, he doesn't know if _he'll_ ever leave.

"I take it back," Sam states, dazed. "No blanket fort. This is perfect." No way is he going to obstruct that view.

"Are you sure? Because there are curtains."

Startled out of his awe, Sam blinks and looks at T'Challa, who's standing on the small bit of floor between mattress and entrance. "How does that- nevermind, yes, I'm sure. Very sure." He quickly climbs the remaining few steps and has a better look around. The bed looks soft and slept in, all the more inviting because it's unmade, and a part of Sam is impressed realizing how smoothly T'Challa got him here. In his bed, almost.

"I can-" T'Challa starts, then stops. Startled, Sam realizes that he's nervous. And clearly reluctant to continue speaking, but after a moment he does. "The sofa."

Eyes widening, Sam realizes what T'Challa is trying to say. That Sam can have his bed and he'll take the sofa, and if it hadn't already been crystal clear how committed T'Challa is to making sure Sam feels safe and non-pressured, it'd be carved in stone now. Because sure, Sam would be secure up here and nobody could get to him without T'Challa being aware of it, but it'd also mean being very far away from Sam, relatively speaking. Much, much farther apart than they've been since the moment they met. It'd also mean not being able to keep an eye on Sam, which right now T'Challa's instincts have got to be clamoring for him to do. It's a very noble offer, but Sam could never allow it to actually happen. Besides what it'd mean for T'Challa, _Sam_ finds the thought of T'Challa being so far away from him absolutely unpalatable.

"No," Sam says calmly, holding T'Challa's gaze. "Not unless that's what you want." He waits for a moment for agreement that doesn't come, then continues, "There is something you can do for me, though."

"Anything," T'Challa is quick to offer.

Sam nods, then says very firmly, "Trust me." T'Challa's eyes widen, but Sam is already continuing. "Trust me to tell you if I don't want something or something makes me uncomfortable. I trust that you will listen."

T'Challa swallows. "I will listen. And… I endeavor to do my best to do as you ask."

It's in that moment that Sam realizes that there's probably a story there. T'Challa's an honorable man and with their differences in position, it's only right that he makes sure Sam doesn't feel pressured. But he's really going out of his way here, in a way that to Sam is starting to feel like it's only tangentially about him.

Like just now, he's probably going to have to push a little bit to get what he wants. That's not a bad thing – in fact, Sam's finding he kind of likes the thought.

So he takes that last step, right into T'Challa's personal space, and says, "Good. And I'd like it if you touch me now."

For one moment, T'Challa goes preternaturally still. His expression goes entirely blank as he just stares at Sam. It lasts for half a breath, and then T'Challa closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

When he opens them again, his eyes are _burning_ and he becomes unleashed.

There's no other way to put it. That's what it feels like, on the inside as T'Challa's emotions surge, desire and need at the forefront, and on the outside as T'Challa cups Sam's face with both hands and kisses him like a man starving.

A startled moan escapes Sam, muffled between their lips, and oh god, he's so on board with this. _So_ on board. T'Challa practically _devours_ him, kiss greedy and dominant, not a bit of his earlier hesitation left. One of Sam's hands flails a bit before settling on T'Challa's stomach, fingers twisting in the fabric of his undershirt, and the other he slings around T'Challa's shoulders. Just in time, too, because his knees are turning to pudding.

T'Challa is steady as a rock, kisses Sam like he's the air he needs to breathe, and Sam moans again. Is rewarded for it by a bite to his lower lip, and now his knees really do give out. And T'Challa catches him effortlessly, lifts Sam up like he weighs nothing, then turns and lowers him to the mattress, all without even faltering in the kiss. And suddenly Sam finds himself on his back, T'Challa above him, on top of him. Somehow both his arms have wrapped themselves around T'Challa, one around his waist, one around his shoulders, hand on the back of T'Challa's head. Their emotions echo off each other, ignite, push higher until Sam is almost dizzy with it.

Just at that moment, one of T'Challa's thighs slides between his legs and oh god. Sam's hard, that's a given, but T'Challa is too, erection pressing against Sam's thigh. At the same time T'Challa sucks Sam's tongue into his mouth, something utterly filthy about the way he does it. Greedy.

 _This is it_ , Sam thinks inanely, _this is how I'll die_. Unable to deal with how hot this is, he'll perish. Or he'll come in his pants in five seconds or less, except, _hell_ no.

It feels like the hardest thing he's ever done, but he manages to tear his mouth away from T'Challa's for long enough to gasp, "Clothes."

Now T'Challa is the one to moan. He's as aroused as Sam is, all focused need and hunger and greed, but somehow he's still coordinated enough to get right on peeling Sam out of his clothes. Not so coordinated he doesn't rip something, though.

Sam curses when he hears fabric tearing, not because he minds but because T'Challa is _literally tearing his clothes off him_. Sam's going to jerk off to the memory of this for the rest of his life. He squirms a bit, shrugging the tattered fabric off, then tries to pluck at T'Challa's shirt because he wants to see that man naked if it's the last thing he does, but T'Challa straight up ignores him in favor of diving for Sam's neck.

For maybe half a second Sam is outraged, and then T'Challa's teeth scrape over his jugular, hot breath sending shivers through him, and Sam straight up just melts with a whimper.

That's where he stays for a while, trying to hold still but unable to keep from squirming while T'Challa explores his neck, laves at the sensitive skin with his tongue, nips, kisses, breathes hot air over damp skin, in short: does an excellent job at turning Sam into jelly.

For a time. Then he registers the feeling of fabric under his hand, his fist clenched in T'Challa's shirt, and abruptly he decides that he's done with that. He's instating a no shirt policy, effective immediately. So he pulls a bit, trying to get T'Challa on board, but T'Challa seems entirely disinclined to stop in his efforts. Sam pulls harder, and still T'Challa doesn't move, so Sam pulls more, and whoops. Now he's the one tearing shirts.

T'Challa straight up growls at that, lifts up in one sinuous wave and attacks Sam's mouth. With a moan, Sam wraps both arms around T'Challa's shoulders, finally naked, skin on skin.

Things turn a bit foggy after that. They're getting rid of clothes with extreme prejudice, and every bit of skin revealed is immediately touched. Sam just can't not put his hands on T'Challa's satiny skin, so soft, hard muscles underneath. And all the while they keep kissing, T'Challa's tongue demanding and teasing simultaneously, encouraging Sam to dive into his mouth, and Sam does, one hand on the back of T'Challa's head. For a moment he goes still, just enjoys the sensation, but then T'Challa's hands wrap around Sam's hips, pull him up, encouraging him to rub his fabric-covered erection against T'Challa's.

Helplessly, Sam moans as pleasure tingles up his spine. They're only wearing underwear anymore but abruptly even that becomes too much and he slides both hands down the sinuous curve of T'Challa's muscular back. He means to get rid of T'Challa's underwear and gets so far as pushing it lower, but then he gets thoroughly distracted by T'Challa's ass. It's round and firm in his hands, perfect for squeezing and Sam can't resist. Doesn't even try.

T'Challa groans into his mouth, hips rolling down against Sam. Once, twice, sending a new wave of pleasure through Sam each time, but then T'Challa growls and abruptly goes still. Impatient frustration sparks, but Sam has less than a second of confusion before T'Challa's hands take hold of his boxers and literally rip them off him.

Shit. Abruptly Sam is completely bare, because T'Challa somehow is able to rip through elastic, and if that isn't the hottest thing that ever happened to him. With renewed vigor he pushes T'Challa's underwear off as well, squirms a bit as he lifts one foot to hook into the waistband and push the offending piece of clothing all the way down. That first moment it's simple efficiency, his hands can't reach far enough and he wants T'Challa completely naked yesterday, but once that's accomplished it registers how much closer they can get now, with T'Challa settled completely between his legs.

T'Challa himself has already caught on, hips hitching as he thrusts his cock against Sam's, sweat slicking their skin as he squirms one hand between them to grab hold of both of them. Sam groans as pleasure spikes, Sam's and T'Challa's and Sam's, so overwhelming that all Sam can do is hold still as it ebbs. The moment stretches, vibrates as T'Challa squeezes them both, experimental. A whimper escapes, Sam doesn't know if he made it or T'Challa, but it doesn't matter. They're on the precipice, and they both know it.

Then Sam's hips twitch, and like that was some sort of signal T'Challa nips Sam's lower lip and the next moment they're both thrusting into T'Challa's hand, precome smoothing the way. T'Challa's cock is silky-smooth against Sam's, thick and throbbing and hot, and T'Challa's fingers are just tight enough to push them together without squeezing too hard. The friction is perfect, just perfect; all Sam can do is give himself into it. With both arms around T'Challa's back and his leg wrapped around T'Challa's hips he holds on, pants wetly into T'Challa's open mouth, eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure between builds and builds into a magnificent crescendo so overwhelming Sam completely loses it when it finally crests. He knows he's loud, feels sound vibrating in his throat, but he can't hear it over his own heartbeat, strong and fast, crescendo in his ears. All he knows are snapshots: T'Challa's firm back as his fingers dig into it, hot come splashing against his skin, T'Challa's swollen lips against his, oversensitive. And then intense, all-encompassing satisfaction blankets everything and Sam sinks into it.

Gradually, Sam returns to awareness. They're still breathing a bit fast, but it's been long enough that Sam's heart is beating strong and steady. T'Challa is still on top of him, hot and heavy, skin sticky anywhere they touch, but Sam wouldn't tell him to move for anything in the world.

All Sam feels, all T'Challa feels, is satisfaction. Sam has no idea where his ends and T'Challa's begins, and it's irrelevant anyway. He's never felt so content, so secure. He turns his head a bit to nuzzle against T'Challa's cheek, a hint of stubble making his sensitive lips tingle.

T'Challa sighs, a sound of such absolute contentment that Sam shivers, tightens the loose hold of his arms around T'Challa to squeeze him a bit with pure happiness. Unfortunately T'Challa takes that as some sort of signal, because he starts to move with intent. Sam makes a protesting sound, holds T'Challa even tighter, and T'Challa stills. His hand, previously under Sam's shoulder, moves up to cup the back of Sam's head, tilting him up for a kiss.

Unlike the previous ones, this kiss is slow, unhurried, but it still makes Sam's heart speed up. When they separate he licks his lips, stares up into T'Challa's eyes.

T'Challa smiles, and oh god, Sam was so right: his smile is adorable. Sam is helpless to do anything but smile back – at least until T'Challa makes motions to pull away again. Then Sam pouts. "What are you doing?"

"We're not going to thank ourselves if we fail to clean up." Smile turning into a grin, T'Challa pushes himself up and away. The cool air rushing in where his warm body had previously been makes Sam shiver, which makes him pout harder. And yeah, T'Challa does have a point, but that doesn't mean Sam is going to be mature about this. As T'Challa moves away, Sam reaches out and snags his wrist with absolute zero intention of letting go.

Pausing, T'Challa blinks once, then smiles sweetly and turns his hand, tangles their fingers. "I'm not going far," he informs.

Of course he isn't, Sam is holding his hand hostage. Turns out to have been a great decision, too, because instead of letting go T'Challa twists his body and leans, reaches for something at the base of the bed. Smugly, Sam lets his eyes wander over the stretch of his body, admiring that strong back, bathed in silvery moonlight. When T'Challa returns he's holding some tissues and a bottle of water. Sam has no idea where he hid that, but he appreciates it anyhow. Because T'Challa was right, things would have gotten uncomfortable and itchy soon.

Cleanup done, T'Challa pulls up a light blanket to cover them both with and they lie on their sides, facing each other, sharing one pillow. "What's going to happen now?" Sam whispers, unwilling to shatter the tranquil silence.

"What do you want to happen now?" T'Challa asks back, equally quietly.

There are a lot of things they have to figure out. Diplomacy things about that UN meeting T'Challa missed, about visas and passports. Public relations things, and that's going to be interesting, because T'Challa has never done an interview for non-Wakandan media ever, whereas Sam has to do them regularly in his function as an Avenger. And then there are a lot of details like where they'll live, how often they can head back to the States to visit Sam's family, what's Sam actually going to do here professionally. Because Sam's going to move to Wakanda, there's no way around that, and logistically as well as diplomatically, that won't be easy. His life is going to change drastically, and he'll regret having to let some things go, but he won't resent it. The payoff is absolutely worth it.

And so the answer to that question is very easy. "Us, not leaving this bed for at least two days."

One corner of T'Challa's mouth quirks up, a hint of heat in his eyes when he looks at Sam through his eyelashes. "Done."

Sam grins, and that's what they do.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm as white as the pure driven snow so I did a lot of research for this (half an hour alone went into trying to figure out what language they'd speak in Wakanda, only to find out that Marvel had already thought of that and they speak _Wakandan, thanks Marvel_ ) and I hope I didn't do anything wrong. If I did, though, please let me know and I'll do my best to fix it.
> 
> Re: the food, it's difficult finding info on pre-colonialism West African food, and most of what I found was about leafy vegetables. If you want the recipe of what T'Challa is cooking, here you go: [Spider plant with tomato](https://www.nature.com/polopoly_fs/7.26933!/file/Recipes.pdf).  
> I can't wait for the movie so we can see more of Wakanda aaah
> 
> VTOL = A vertical take-off and landing aircraft is one that can hover, take off, and land vertically.
> 
> Title comes from the song "Always" by Marvin Gaye.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this. Don't forget to tell [falcondiment](http://falcondiment.tumblr.com/) that they're [amazing](http://falcondiment.tumblr.com/post/165455396410/these-are-for-melonbutterflys-fic-well-share)!


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